After the Rise
by AkamaiMom
Summary: After Orlin ascends, Sam is left clouded in questions and suspicion. What will it take for her team to believe in her again? And how will she learn to trust in O'Neill once more?
1. Questions

_Questions_

It would have made her laugh, if it weren't so infuriating.

If everything weren't at risk—her rank, her reputation, her career. Not to mention the relationships she'd nurtured over the past four and a half years. The deep friendship she had with Daniel, the mutual approbation she'd found with Teal'c, the caring mentor she'd found in General Hammond.

The—_whatever it was_—that she'd _thought_ she'd had with the Colonel.

That part was the hardest. She'd come through the 'Gate from Verona trailing well behind Colonel Reynolds and the rest of his team. She'd had to rely on SG-16 and their IDC to get home. Orlin hadn't thought to make her a GDO before he'd been forced to hurl himself through the 'Gate inexplicably alive in her basement.

Colonel O'Neill had been in the Gateroom when she'd emerged through the event horizon. He'd stood at the foot of the ramp, although well away from the action, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his lips thinned into an impossibly tight line. He hadn't caught her eye, although she'd tried. He'd merely ordered her to the medical facilties and then to her private quarters to await a briefing.

Colonel Reynolds had not been particularly happy to see her on Velona—hadn't understood the sacrifice Orlin had made when he'd saved them from their own arrogance. Hadn't known the pain Carter felt in seeing him die. She'd been hurt—emotionally, as well as physically, and exhausted as well. Sam hadn't felt for Orlin what he'd claimed to feel for her, but his death—his leaving—had wounded her profoundly.

Martouf's death had affected her the same way. Not that she had been in love with him, either—but she _had_ loved him. Most men couldn't understand the difference. Many women couldn't, either. She'd enjoyed the company of both Orlin and Martouf. They had treated her with a sweet sort of respect—allowed her to be the woman that she often missed in herself, hidden as it normally was behind the cammies and explosives.

Both Orlin and Martouf had been kind—caring. Kind men proved hard to come by. In her line of work, they were flat-out rare. And she'd been cosseted by their attention—felt feminine and cared for and wanted. She'd been Sam rather than Major Carter, and been able to imagine just for those moments, hours, days, that she could possibly love someone who wasn't off-limits.

Wouldn't it figure that they'd both been aliens.

And wouldn't it figure that no matter how hard she'd tried, she couldn't feel for them the same blatant need that she felt for the Colonel. And while a relationship with an alien wouldn't have broken the frat regulations, she'd only felt comfortable with them—and established easy, sweet friendships.

What she wanted with the Colonel wasn't easy, wasn't sweet. Her feelings for him seared her to the core—were as necessary as light, as blood, as breath. The irony is that she could never allow herself to reach out and take what she so desperately needed.

She'd denied herself the Colonel because of rank and career. She'd denied herself Orlin and Martouf because of the Colonel. Doing the right thing had gotten her exactly nothing.

But as platonic as the time spent with Orlin had been—as righteous her intentions had been through it all, she was still _here_. In this room. This gray cell with its single light, its metal table and its folding chairs. Still being cross examined by Simmons—that fine-dressed pig of a man.

Still with her life, her reputation, and her career on the line.

Knowing that the people she'd trusted the most had thought the worst of her. Had abandoned her.

It was like an old time police show—this interrogation room. All that it lacked were the cigarettes and the bars.

_She would have laughed if it weren't so infuriating._

"You still haven't answered my question, Major Carter." The voice velvet and ice.

Sam jumped imperceptibly. She refused to look at Simmons, focusing instead on a patch of peeling paint on the wall directly adjacent to the door. She hadn't even heard the question, and wasn't going to ask to hear it again.

Simmons must have sensed her drifting attention. "I asked you how much aid you gave the alien in manufacturing the 'Gate in your basement."

"I didn't even know he was making it, Sir." She knew her voice was weak—too quiet. She just couldn't seem to be able to speak past the ache in her throat. "I did not help him. Didn't aid him."

"I find that hard to believe, Major. This alien built an actual Stargate in your basement—using materials he found largely in your home. And you expect us to believe that you didn't help him?"

"You have the tapes, sir. You can watch them yourself. I had not entered my basement in nearly a week. I only go in there to do the laundry or put things into storage."

"Yet he used your household items to construct it. He ordered supplies using your credit card and internet connection."

Her eyes flickered shut and then opened to focus again on the wall next to the door. "I didn't give him permission to use the items, sir. And he used my credit card against my knowledge as well." She didn't say that she would have ordered the items herself had Orlin asked. Would have aided him had he needed it. "I did not help him."

And in the end, she _couldn't_ help him. And now he was gone.

Simmons shifted in his seat, unfastening a glossy black button on his coat. "You expect us to believe all this, Major Carter?" He smiled his viper's semblance of a smile. "You're an intelligent woman. Surely you don't think that we're naive."

She remained silent.

"Surely you don't think that we're all as gullible as—well—_you_?"

For the first time, she glanced at Simmons' face. It was sharp, outlined in that single overhead lamp. And condescending. His mouth twisted into a gloat, his heavily hooded eyes narrowed with something beyond mere dislike. He sat easily, relaxed in his chair, one leg crossed fully over the other, his shiny, expensive shoes winking in the lamplight. How would it be—to be filled like that with such tranquil hate?

"I don't know what you are, sir." Submissive, she refused to defend herself. Although she knew that there wasn't anyone else to defend her.

"I am determined, Major, to find out the truth." He drummed his fingers on the table. "And you will provide it to me."

"Am I in official custody, sir?" Sam breathed deeply for the first time in hours. Her hands lay lifeless in her lap—as immobile as if she were actually shackled. "Am I a prisoner?"

Simmons smiled then—his full lips twitched. "Not yet, Major." He stood. "I'll inform you if that changes."

He turned and aimed himself for the door. "Although, if I were you, I wouldn't leave the mountain without permission from a superior officer. From someone authorized to decide what to do with you."

Sam raised her eyes to his. "And that would be—" Her voice trailed off. She really didn't know. Almost didn't want to know.

He grinned. Nodded his head wryly. It wasn't until he'd opened the door and stepped partially through it that he answered.

"Me."

----OOOOOOO----

Sam hadn't tried to exit the room after Simmons had left. She knew that her legs wouldn't support her. And she hadn't wanted to leave while she still had so little control over her emotions. She could feel the tears rising, and fought them back. Whatever else happened, she wouldn't cry in front of the sycophantic guard that Simmons had left on the other side of the wall.

When the door opened again, she was still sitting in exactly the same position she'd been in when Simmons left. She thought she really didn't care who came in. Caring required too much energy. And it didn't matter anyway. Nobody mattered.

"I got permission for you to leave the SGC."

Except for him. O'Neill stepped into the room and let the door shut quietly behind him. He took a few steps into the room, then stopped, turned, his hands at his sides.

"Simmons isn't as all-powerful as he seems to think. He can't confine you to base."

She glanced up at him, but found it to be too painful and dropped her gaze to her hands.

"Look, Carter. I know that you're—upset."

Sam closed her eyes, waiting.

"I realize that you've had a tough few weeks." He shoved his hands in his pockets. She knew that the Colonel did that when he needed something to do and didn't have a doohickey to play with. "I know you've lost something important to you. Someone important."

He cleared his throat, she heard him shuffle his boots on the floor.

"And I know that you think we've failed you."

Sam snapped her gaze up to him. She felt herself frown. "You didn't trust me, sir." The tear she'd been holding back broke through and trailed slowly down her cheek. "Nobody believed me, and nobody trusted me."

"I know." The Colonel swallowed. "You deserved better."

But he didn't sound convinced. She shook her head and refocused on the peeling paint.

"For the record," he paused, and she looked up at him through her eyelashes. "For the record I didn't know about the surveillance. I didn't know they'd left a camera."

Sam lifted a hand to wipe at her eyes. "But if you had known, sir? Would you have told me?"

O'Neill regarded her steadily for a long, silent moment. "Honestly, Carter?"

"I think I deserve that much, sir."

"Then _honestly_, I don't know."

Sam squeezed her eyes shut and forced back a sob. When she finally could, she spoke again. "I'd like to go now, sir." She stood, wobbled, but righted herself. She rounded the table and headed for the door, expected him to step away and give her some space.

Instead he moved himself between her and the exit, stopping her with his body. He lowered his gaze, studied her.

"Carter—I don't know how to make this better."

"You can't make it better, sir. No offense intended."

"I value your contribution to the team." He spoke in measured tones. Evenly, without inflection.

"The Team." She nodded. "Yes—well, which team would that be, sir?" She raised her face and caught his eye. "The team that we _were_—or the team we've _become_? You know, the one that spies on each other."

"It's not like that, Carter."

"Right."

"I didn't know." But he sounded unconvinced. Skeptical.

She pushed past him and threw the door open wide. "Tell that to the cameras, sir."


	2. Scrutiny

_Scrutiny_

She'd fled.

There was no other word that described her self-conscious, desperate hurtle towards the elevators and the surface.

She'd passed through the final checkpoint and emerged into the mid-morning sun. Disoriented, she'd entered the parking area, found her Volvo. Automatically, she'd reached for her keys.

And then she remembered. She'd been driven home the night before with Simmons and his men. Her keys must still be on the entry table, along with her wallet and purse.

Sam sat down on a curb in the parking lot. Her body screamed in exhaustion. She'd been awake for how long? At least twenty-four hours. And it wasn't like she hadn't pulled all-nighters before—but the weariness she felt extended further than her bones, or muscles. Her fatigue had crept into her soul.

There had been the confrontation in Hammond's office, and then the surreal, uncomfortable drive to her house, sandwiched as she'd been between Simmons and O'Neill. She'd entered her home as if breaching an enemy stronghold, and left it through that homemade wormhole.

And then Orlin had been shot, and she'd held his hand as he'd died. Ascended. Maybe there was a difference. She really didn't care. It had just resulted in the same thing—one more person she cared about who'd left her.

Sam moaned and dropped her face into her knees, folding her arms protectively around her head. She threaded her fingers through her short hair, pulling on the strands, grateful that it hurt. At least she could feel _something_. She'd been numb since the moment she'd entered Hammond's office and looked at O'Neill.

And he'd evaded her gaze.

Something inside her had shriveled—some hope, maybe, or faith. She'd realized that the blind trust she'd had in her team, in her Superior Office, had been misguided. Misplaced. That she'd been fooling herself all along.

A sound near her made her open her eyes. Through her cage of arms and knees she could see a pair of shoes. Tiny, sensible, low heels.

Janet.

"You okay, Sam?"

But the Major could only shake her head. _No._

Janet looked around briefly before lowering herself to the curb beside her friend.

"'Not okay, _Doctor'_, or 'It sucks to be me, Janet'?"

Only a real friend would have understood what that meant. The Major lifted her head and turned her face towards Dr. Fraiser. "It sucks to be me, Janet."

Dr. Fraiser's face softened into an expression of motherly pity. "I heard. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you got back this morning. I would have kept you in observation so that Dorkface Simmons couldn't get at you."

Sam couldn't help it. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "Dorkface. That's good. Appropriate."

"So." Janet paused before venturing on. "What exactly happened?"

"I told you he was at my house."

No need to ask who 'he' was. Sam had mentioned Orlin once to Janet. She hadn't told the doctor much because Sam hadn't wanted to make her responsible if everything went south. And right now, everything had journeyed so far south it was in Antarctica. Jan frowned and scooted closer, linking her elbow with her friend's. "I know. I didn't tell anyone."

"I know, Janet." Sam nodded. "They were supposed to take the surveillance equipment out of my house."

"I thought they _had_ taken it out."

"They left some in. At least one camera. I think they tapped my phones. There were listening devices all over. Nothing that I could see." She wiped at her nose with her hand. "Janet—they have me on tape with him. They were spying on me."

"Holy Cow."

"And the thing is—_he_ _knew_."

"Who, Orlin, or Colonel O'Neill?"

Sam grimaced. "Both. Orlin knew that they were trying to capture him. So he bought some stuff on line with my credit card—"

"How'd he get that? You always keep it at home."

"That's where he's been for the past weeks. My home." The implication was clear.

"But you hide it—I know how you feel about using it—you're such a buzzkill at the mall."

Sam shook her head and smiled—an anemic smile, but a smile, nonetheless. "When he first came, he told me how his people—his race—share themselves with each other. He said it was more like sharing their essence."

"The glowy thing." That was the one thing Janet had known—the reason Sam had been sure her visitor wasn't malicious.

"The glowy thing. He said he wouldn't read my mind—but now I'm not so sure. I think he may have seen more than he let on. Like where I hide my stuff."

"Or, he just looked around until he found what he needed."

Sam nodded. "Whatever it was. He ordered titanium, some fiber optic cabling—other materials—and he built his own 'Gate. Special Forces surrounded my house and tried to take him in, but he escaped back to 636. I followed him—trying to make things right. Simmons and his men think I'm complicit in something bad. Something wrong."

"And what does the Colonel say?"

"Simmons?"

"No, Sam. What does _Colonel O'Neill_ think?"

Sam broke again. She bowed her head again, tightened her lips. She didn't have to say anything. Janet knew that her friend had been broken.

"Oh, Sam." Janet disengaged her arm from the Major's and reached around, pulling her close. "I'm so sorry."

Only Janet and Teal'c had been present during the Za'tarc testing. Only they knew what had been said. And even though Sam hadn't said anything else about it—couldn't say anything else—Janet wasn't stupid. She'd read through the reports, seen the private glances, allowed them to stay together in the infirmary when she shouldn't have. She'd obviously hoped that they would figure out a way. She'd said more than once that the Colonel and Sam needed each other. They were so much alike—they understood what it was like to be who they were, doing what they were doing. So much time was being lost because of honor, and stubbornness. Janet respected their nobility as much as she scorned their pigheadedness.

"He didn't even try to defend me.

"Oh, Sam." Janet repeated. "What did he say?"

"He said he'd given me orders to gather intel—which he had—but Janet—it was so contrived. And he wouldn't look at me."

"He must have had some reason."

"What reason could there be to have lost faith in me? What have I done to him to deserve that?"

"Nothing. You don't deserve that at all."

But Sam knew that something was missing. "So what do I do?

"Go home." Janet rubbed Sam's shoulder gently. "Go home and get some sleep. I can call in a prescription, if you need it."

Sam let out a strangled laugh. "That's what I was trying to do. My car is here, but I am sadly lacking in keys."

Janet grinned sadly. "I'll give you a ride." She stood and offered her hand like she would have to Cassie. "Come on."

----OOOOOOO----

Her house didn't feel like her own anymore.

She'd returned home to find it locked up tight. Sam had borrowed a pair of tweezers and a paper clip from Janet's purse to break herself in.

Once inside, she'd walked through each room, examining. She'd expected worse—thought she'd return to see her home in a shambles, her belongings strewn about. In reality, everything sat mostly where she'd left it—just skewed. The computer monitor sat a few inches off kilter, her butter graced the wrong shelf in the fridge, her toothpaste cap faced down instead of up in the holder on the counter. It didn't feel right—as if it had been violated. Simmons' men hadn't been careful in their searches. There were holes where wires had been removed from the drywall, and her drawers had been inserted in the wrong slots. The silk wrapped emerald had disappeared from where she'd hidden it in her underwear drawer. The thought of Simmons rifling through her lingerie had nearly made her vomit.

And every possible trace of Orlin had been erased. Even the spare toothbrush she'd found to give him after he'd retaken human form, the comb, the few clothes she'd bought him, the quilt and pillow he'd folded neatly each morning and left on the couch in the living room—all gone. Sam could only assume they'd been collected for testing.

So she'd sat on her bed and stared at the walls. In the corner across from her bed, an ugly scar marred the drywall where a camera had once been mounted. It looked like a metaphor, somehow. Of exactly what, she had no clue.

She felt as sullied as the house. The fact that her integrity was in question was worse than the thorough search her home had endured. That O'Neill had turned his back on her was incomprehensible. She had no explanation for his behavior—his disregard for the trust they had built during their years together. She'd replayed every conversation of the past three weeks over and over in her mind, and still could not come up with any answers.

It was as if something just suddenly changed—a switch flipped.

Things had been fine when they'd first arrived on 636. When she'd awoken from her faint, it was if her entire world had suddenly shifted. Even Daniel had been strangely distant—and he still hadn't called to see how she was. Did he share this newfound distrust of her with the Colonel? She didn't know. Only Teal'c had been unaltered in his treatment of her, and Teal'c himself was still trying to find a footing after his experience with Apophis and the Rite of Mal Sharran.

And now the house lay silent around her—oppressive. It smelled different, looked different, felt different. She'd lost this sanctuary—this haven. She didn't belong _here_, anymore, either.

Overwhelmed and weak, she collapsed sideways on the bed. And the rest of the tears that she'd so successfully hidden from Simmons, from Janet, from the Colonel finally surfaced, trailing silently down her face to soak into the quilt.

----OOOOOOO----

Sam woke suddenly, sitting up too quickly. Dim light filtered in through her sheer drapes—she'd slept for several hours, at least. Her body felt stiff, sore, and wasted. She stripped off the BDU shirt that she still wore and toed off her boots. Standing, she unfastened the top button of her pants, and reached for the hem of her t-shirt.

"Carter."

Sam whirled to see Colonel O'Neill in her bedroom doorway. He wore civvies—jeans and a crew-neck sweater, and held a glass of water and some pills in a pharmacy bottle.

"What are you doing here, sir?" She knew she sounded accusatory, brash. She cleared the sleep out of her throat and redid the button at her waist, reached for the BDU big shirt.

"Doc Fraiser sent me over with these." He held up the bottle and shook it lightly. "She was afraid that you might not be able to sleep."

"You can see that wasn't really an issue, sir."

"Yes, well." He shrugged. Taking a single step inside the doorway, he placed the pills and the glass of water on her dresser. "There you are."

A comment that meant exactly nothing. Sam stared at the pills warily. "How did you get in?"

"Door was open."

"I'm sure I locked it."

"Really?" His brows rose slightly. "Odd."

Silence fell, heavy, meaningful, guarded. There wasn't anything to be said between them that was light, or pleasant. "I'd like some privacy, sir. And I'm all right. I don't need a sitter."

"Yes. Well, Doc Fraiser asked me to keep an eye on you, and since I can't just leave the _one_ here, I guess I'll hang around for a bit."

"No disrespect intended, sir," Sam took a deep breath and looked him straight on. "But I really don't want you here."

His mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed. The Colonel studied her for a long, painful moment before shifting himself towards her slightly. "There are things we need to discuss."

"Here? In my house?" Sam smiled, but it was mockingly bitter. "Did you authorize more surveillance, sir? No—you're probably wired."

"It's not like that, Carter."

"Oh really?" She shook her head. "How can I be sure of that?"

O'Neill turned his head to the side, avoiding the directness of her gaze. "I need to explain."

"You don't trust me anymore, sir. I get that. What I don't understand is why you didn't come to me—why you didn't talk to me."

"Simmons left this morning. This whole—thing—with him is over. You've been cleared."

"And that's supposed to make everything just peachy again?"

"I didn't say that."

Sam ran an exasperated hand through her hair. "You're not going to leave, are you?"

The Colonel reached out and adjusted the bottle of pills he'd placed on the dresser, reset the glass of water. Sam knew those signs—he had something to say. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't leave until it had been said.

"I still don't want to talk _here_, sir."

He studied her intently, drumming his fingers on the top of her bureau. Finally, he folded his long fingers into a fist and rested it next to the glass. "Then get showered—get changed. We'll walk."

He thumped his knuckles on the dresser and turned, catching the door handle with his fingertips and closing it silently in his wake.


	3. Doubt

_Doubt_

Walking along the path in the park across from her home, Sam felt a keen sense of déjà vu.

Had it really only been a few days before when she'd walked this same path with Orlin? He'd teased her that she was falling for him even as they'd discussed the weapon that could destroy them all. That day had been buffeted by a brisk wind, too, and they'd had the park largely to themselves, it being a schoolday.

Now, as she walked next to the Colonel, Sam again noted that the park lay largely empty—even more so than it had been before. It was dusk, and cooling, and only someone who had a reason would be outside.

Like someone afraid of being overheard—recorded. Monitored. Someone whose own home had become suspect.

----OOOOOOO----

Earlier, after her bedroom door had clicked shut, Sam had eyed it uncertainly.

At one point right after their return from captivity in Hathor's stronghold, the team had gathered at her house for dinner. The menfolk had picked up Chinese and beer on the way over, and Daniel had bravely soldiered through almost two cans before passing out in a snoring heap on the armchair in Sam's living room. Teal'c had excused himself for Kelnorim, still trying to shake the effects of the torture he'd suffered during that jaunt through the 'Gate.

So, Sam and the Colonel had been essentially alone in the house.

She still didn't know exactly where during that fiasco of a mission that she'd become hyper-aware of O'Neill as a man. Or when he'd discovered the fact that she was feminine underneath the BDUs. Sam suspected it had to do with his arrival in her observation room—she'd felt him hesitate while unhooking the tubes attached to her chest, and she'd been made acutely aware of her own bare skin by his presence above her, hovering as he'd been, like a lover.

And then he'd pulled her into the alcove, and she'd been pressed up against him long enough to have felt—things. Like how hard his body was behind hers, and how his large hand shaped itself across her abdomen. How intoxicating his natural scent was—that combination of strength and man that was essential O'Neill. His breath against her ear had stirred things that she had buried deep inside. She'd tasted him on her lips even as his hand had stilled her cries. His potency, his power had surrounded her.

When she'd returned to pull him from the cryogenic stasis pod, and Hathor had finally been flung into the pit, he had pulled Sam into himself with a frantic strength—as if reassuring himself that they were both real. He'd held her close enough that she'd had trouble breathing, thinking, speaking—she'd wanted nothing but to warm his frozen body with the heat of her own.

More than a week later, with the remains of Kung Pao and fried rice on the coffee table, Sam had sat down on the couch next to him. It had been intimate, and quiet. Maybe they'd both had too many beers—maybe it was the tranquil comfort that had descended around them with the advent of night—maybe it was the still unexplored awareness that had been kindled on that far-distant planet, in those harrowing circumstances. It really hadn't mattered. They had forgotten to be guarded, and misplaced their ranks. During their inconsequential, inane conversation, he'd rested his arm on the back of the couch and somehow she'd found herself leaning into him. He'd stroked her shoulder, and she'd fingered the sweatshirt he'd worn. He'd bent his head and pressed his cheek against her hair, and then breathed deeply of her even as the backs of his fingers had followed the line of her temple. She had sensed his course, and she'd turned her head up to him expectantly.

In a single instant, both of them had remembered that they weren't allowed moments like that, and the frantic, hurried escape he'd made, leaving Daniel and Teal'c behind, had been unwaveringly awkward. The pain and regret in his dark eyes in that moment still haunted her.

That had been the last time they had been alone together. They had always been careful. And Sam thought that they had engendered a trust—an understanding. She'd thought that the interlude they'd abandoned would someday be seen out. She'd believed that O'Neill had wanted that as badly as she.

----OOOOOOO----

Eyeing that door, knowing that the Colonel was out there in her home again, Sam hesitated. A quick glance at the scar in the corner where one of Simmons' cameras had been firmed her resolve. She'd never been one to flinch—or back down.

She'd taken a few steps to the door and flicked the lock shut, and then crossed into her bathroom, shedding clothes along the way.

The heat of the shower had helped her—revived her. She'd dried her hair quickly, finger combing it with a little dab of goopy stuff that some stylist along the way had convinced her she'd needed. She forewent any makeup other than a bit of powder. The Colonel had seen her looking worse.

She dragged on a pair of jeans, donned an Air Force t-shirt, and had to look in three different drawers to find her favorite sweater—another reminder than someone else had touched it last.

With socks and running shoes on and tied, she finally unlocked her door and went in search of O'Neill.

He was on the couch, in exactly the same position she'd remembered from that night so many months before. One arm outstretched on the back of the couch, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. He'd gravitated, naturally, towards her television. The Colonel could always find something with which to entertain himself.

She'd stood briefly at the corner, just watching him. Even as ambivalent as she felt about him, she was constantly struck by his presence—even sitting quietly as he was, he exuded power.

He hadn't even looked at her before he spoke. "Ready?"

Sam took a deep, cleansing breath. "Yes, sir."

And he'd turned off the television, unfolded himself from his seat on the couch, and placed the remote neatly on the coffee table before following her out the door.

Sam now walked next to him, stung by the tense, twisted familiarity of doing so. How many times in the last few years had they walked like this? Companionably, easily. Their strides matched well—both of them tall, both athletic. They'd trudged up and down many an alien sand dune, barren hill, or forested valley. But almost never on their own planet, in the last lights of their own sun.

She'd forgotten her gloves, and the cold forced her to plunge her hands into her pockets. She couldn't help but muse on the strategic fallibility of that necessity.

Sam began, because she wanted it to be over. "You said you needed to tell me things, sir."

"Simmons wasn't here just because of the incident with your little alien friend." The Colonel's voice emerged tightly, without preamble.

"His name was Orlin."

"Orlin." The Colonel glanced sideways at her. "Whatever. He wasn't the primary reason that the NID got involved here."

"I thought it was the weapon on 636."

"No. That was all just an excuse."

"Then what was it, sir?"

"The NID has been investigating improprieties within the SGC—trying to ferret out activities that aren't allowed."

"What kind of activities? Hammond runs a pretty tight ship."

"He does." He paused, the sound of their shoes on the pavement eating up several seconds. "Carter—Simmons was investigating us."

"Who, SG-1?"

"No, Carter." O'Neill raised his hand and gestured between the two of them. "Us. You. Me. _Us_."

Sam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "What's there to investigate? We've never done anything that needed scrutiny."

"Someone within the SGC has been talking—passing along rumors, making damned stuff up for all I know." He turned so that he was facing her. Catching her eye, O'Neill raised his eyebrows slightly. "I don't know who."

"Sir, I haven't spoken to anyone about—anything." Sam fisted her hands in her pockets. The thought flitted briefly through her mind—_some_ people did know that a certain attraction existed. Janet, Daniel, Teal'c. Even Cassie had commented on the fact that Sam and the Colonel seemed to share a brain cell when they were paired up during game night. They killed all opponents at Pictionary.

But none of them—and Sam was absolutely certain about this—none of them would have any reason to approach the NID. There had been no indiscretions. And after that single night following Hathor's demise, no opportunity.

He canted his head to one side. "I know, Major. I'm just sayin'."

"Saying what—that I have said something, or done something to draw suspicion?"

"_Somebody_ has—I'm not saying it was you."

"Sir, it _wasn't_ me!"

"I know, Carter." His lips flattened. "I _know_."

"So I'm being accused of what—being _gossiped_ about?"

"Carter." O'Neill's voice was still low, serious, while Sam knew that hers fast approached shrill. "You just needed to know. It's why you weren't brought into the loop. Why I couldn't demand that the bugs be cleaned out of your house."

"Why? There's nothing going on."

"I know." He took a step closer to her. "But if I'd started making demands, it would have fed the rumors. I couldn't treat you different. I couldn't tell you."

"So Orlin was just a bonus for the NID." Sam turned away from the Colonel, speaking more to herself than to him. She could see her breath in the air. "They came for one fish, and ended up with another."

O'Neill didn't speak, just stood gazing up at the stars beginning to emerge.

"So what now?"

O'Neill drew in a breath. "I don't know."

"You said I'd been cleared."

"In the investigation into the alien."

"But not of this other thing."

"Hammond is working on it." O'Neill looked down, scuffing at a spot of grass growing up between two sections of sidewalk.

Sam hesitated before asking. "Sir, how much does he know?"

"Hammond?" The Colonel turned his attention back to Sam. "More than you'd think. He asked me about the Xanex testing."

Sam couldn't stop the smile that rose. She'd long suspected that O'Neill did that just to get a rise out of Daniel or her. The correction had become automatic. "Za'tarc."

"Whatever. He knew about it—about the end part." He frowned, and then answered her next question before she asked it. "Apparently Dad and Anise have been chatting."

And her father and General Hammond had known each other for years. "Crap."

O'Neill tried for levity. "I didn't even know that the Tok'ra _had_ water coolers."

Sam didn't smile.

"So, yes." The Colonel continued. "Hammond is aware that there may be—issues."

"Did he ask you about it?"

"He told me to be wise." One corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Whatever the hell _that_ means."

Sam had no answer for that. So she asked the question she'd been harboring for what seemed like weeks. "Sir—why don't you trust me anymore?"

The Colonel didn't say anything for a long beat. "What do you mean?"

"You could have—_should_ have told me about all this."

"I didn't know." But the protest sounded hollow.

"Sir, I'm not stupid."

"No, Carter, you're not."

"So why didn't you tell me?"

O'Neill simply looked at her for a while, his jaw tensing rhythmically.

"There's more?"

"Simmons is on a witch hunt. He's hoping to get his own people into the SGC. He was looking for signs that we—all of us—Daniel and Teal'c too, are no longer capable of performing our duties. Your exposure to that computer thing, the Jolinar thing, the mind stamp thing—all of those combined have made him question your ability."

"You've had the same—or more experiences."

"Yes, and I'm under the same scrutiny. The same doubt."

"From _him_." Sam shook her head. "I'm talking about you, sir. _You_ didn't trust me. You could have warned me what was coming. And you didn't believe me that Orlin was real. Why not? Have I ever done anything to make you doubt me?"

"Nobody could see him—"

"We couldn't see the Retu either! And how many other entities have we come across that we didn't immediately understand? And how many completely unbelievable things have we seen?" Her voice had grown loud, and she drew herself back a bit. "You should have believed me. You should have believed _in_ me."

"Carter—I—" He started, then frowned, pursing his lips.

"I did exactly what I should have done, sir, and I was recommended for psych evaluations and spied on."

Still the Colonel stood silent.

"I'm wondering if I can continue with this team, sir. I would only be a distraction if the rest of you have lost respect for me. If you have doubt in my abilities."

"Carter." His tone was low, dangerous.

"Sir, if you have nothing else to say, I would request leave to return to my house."

"Carter. Don't."

"Sir?"

He stood with his head down, his eyes closed, both hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Don't."

"Don't what, sir? Go home?"

"Don't request a transfer."

"Then give me a reason to stay on the team." She took a step toward him. "I need to know that you still trust me."

"I do, Carter."

"Then what?" Sam exclaimed. "What is going on?"

"It's not you." He took a long, deep breath, raising his head. "I don't want you to be damaged by this. I don't want your career—your integrity—blown to hell."

"So you openly doubt my sanity? That's supposed to _save_ my career?"

"Damn it, Carter. Don't you see? Everything that we say and do is being monitored by the NID. I had to let it play out. I trust you—but we've all had out moments when we weren't—right. When we believed things that weren't real. And no, I _didn't_ believe you. I didn't think that this guy was real." He shifted, moving closer. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, controlled. "But don't for one minute think that I ever lost faith in _you_. I believe _in_ _you_. I always have. Ever since you challenged me to arm wrestle."

Sam paused, in the dimness of the evening his eyes were black, little more than slits under his lowered brows. She tried to find truth there, but her own hurt prevented it. And she recognized that maybe the fault wasn't all his. Maybe she'd lost a little of confidence, too, in the dregs of this whole mess.

"So don't. Don't ask for a transfer. Stick with SG-1."

"You're asking?"

"I'm asking."

The darkness had descended completely. She could no longer make out distinct features—couldn't see into his expressive eyes.

"I'll think about it, sir."

She turned to leave.

"Sam."

She stopped again, turned half way to him.

"I won't doubt you again."

Long, dark seconds ticked by. "I'll think about it, sir."

And then she left him there, on the walking path.

But she felt him watching her the whole walk home.


	4. Qualms

_Qualms_

"What was that, Major?"

In any other circumstance, he would be shouting—railing up and down until he'd shouted his anger out and calmed down. But this day, this first mission back after Orlin, he had swallowed back whatever scathing criticism he was surely thinking. This day, he demanded in a measured, patient tone.

Sam would have rather had the shouting.

He spoke to her again, his voice blending into the tumultuous thoughts in her head. Sam couldn't calm down enough to listen to him—to hear him.

She focused instead on unclipping her weapon from her vest. She fumbled with it once—twice—her hands trembled so badly that she couldn't grip it. She flexed her hands and tried again, and again. She tried to will the shakes away, but had no success.

_She'd almost killed him. _

Almost seen him killed. She'd hesitated at his order, hadn't flicked the switch to the detonator in time. He'd been running, and shouting his orders, the Jaffa close behind, shooting their staff weapons as they chased him through the trees, over a small rise.

They'd established the line for just this reason. Intending to lure the Jaffa away from the village, they had sent in Colonel O'Neill. She'd planted the explosives across the path that led from the village to the 'Gate. The Colonel had been the bait—the plan had been laid for him to lead the Jaffa to the line and then detonate as they crossed it.

And she'd hesitated on the trigger.

She hadn't trusted that his perspective was just that much more accurate than hers. So she'd held out for a fraction of a second more. But by the time she'd triggered the line, half of the Jaffa unit had passed over the mark, and she'd only taken out three of the seven guards.

Teal'c had downed two more with his staff weapon, and Daniel had gotten lucky to tag a third with his Beretta. They'd gotten much too close if Daniel had been able to shoot that accurately. Normally, all barn doors were safe around him.

Sam herself had finally eliminated the fourth with her P-90. It had taken more than ten shots to take him down. Nine more than it would have in a normal circumstance. Nine more than it should have taken.

And the Colonel had dived for cover as she'd opened fire, coming to a crashing heap in some bushes near the DHD. The last Jaffa had fallen no more than six yards away—Sam had stood in horror as the scene ended, staring unmoving at the last Jaffa to die, a single trail of blood leaking out of his ear.

O'Neill hadn't spoken as he stood and extricated himself from the undergrowth. He'd merely adjusted his vest, reseated his hat on his head, and brushed leaves and dirt off his pants. After a few long, dragging breaths, he'd reached for his pack and P-90, and signaled for Daniel to dial the 'Gate.

Now they stood in the locker room, Sam's back to him, her hands useless and cold on the clasp of her vest. She felt slightly disembodied, completely inert. A rushing filled her ears and she suddenly found herself too weak to stand. Reeling, she lowered herself to the bench next to her.

She'd almost seen him dead. The staff blasts had been so, so close. She'd smelled burning fabric as he'd passed and noticed singed spots on his BDUs. The Jaffa hadn't been the normal rank and file—there had been a First Prime among them, and two lesser lieutenant types that Teal'c had known. Better ranks, better aim.

"I ask you again, Major, what happened back there?"

"I don't know." But she did. She'd second guessed him—hadn't trusted him to know better than she knew the proximity of the Jaffa—their rate of advance. And he'd nearly been killed.

This then, was the price she would pay. The toll this whole fiasco would take. This loss of faith.

She finally gave up on the clasp and let the weapon dangle from the clip, while her hands fell useless into her lap.

Daniel and Teal'c were bustling at their own lockers, and Sam knew they were listening to the exchange. Waiting for her answer. That only made it more difficult. Too much couldn't, and wouldn't, be said.

"You hesitated. The line was ready to blow, and you didn't pull the trigger." O'Neill's voice was unnaturally calm. "I want to know why."

"I don't know." She didn't sound like herself. Her voice was weak, shallow.

"Yes, well." The Colonel had already stowed his gear and held his P-90 in one hand. She knew he was preparing to return it to the Armory. "Why don't you try to figure it out so that next time, I don't _actually_ die?"

She had no answer for that.

No answer at all.

----OOOOOOO----

She raised a hand and knocked lightly—hesitantly.

At the 'Come in', she entered.

"Major Carter."

"Sir." She stood uneasily in General Hammond's office. The last time she'd stood here, Simmons had informed her that she'd been under surveillance. And Colonel O'Neill had refused to look her in the eye. And her confidence in the world, in herself, had been impossibly shaken. "You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down, Major." The General motioned towards the chair across from him. She stepped over to the chair and sat, perched on the edge, stiff.

"You're not in any kind of trouble, Major Carter. You can relax."

"Yes, sir." But relaxation wouldn't have been possible without one of Doc Fraiser's famous prescriptions. Sam sat still, erect, breathing more shallowly than normal, her face tight.

The General eyed her with frank concern. He carefully folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "I understand that you have been under quite a lot of pressure lately, Major."

She raised her eyes and watched him find his next words. "And then I received your request today." He tapped the single piece of paper on his desk. "You've asked to be reassigned away from SG-1."

"Yes, sir."

"What's this all about?"

"I believe that I have become a liability for the team." She had been practicing the phrase ever since the Colonel had left the locker room that morning. In her head, the words hadn't been quite so distasteful as they were right now in her mouth.

"A liability?" Hammond narrowed his eyes. "How so?"

"I feel that the trust between the team members has been lost, sir."

"By the recent events with the Ascended Being and the NID?"

"Yes, sir."

"Colonel O'Neill mentioned something about this when I talked to him a few minutes ago." Hammond leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him. "When I showed him your request, he told me that he suspected that you would do just something like this." He indicated the paper beneath his arms.

"Sir, I informed you of my failure today during the debriefing. I was nearly responsible for the Colonel being killed."

"I'd say that those Jaffa had something to do with it." The General gave her exactly half a smile. "And Jack seems to have the propensity to do it all by himself, most days."

"General, sir. I didn't trigger the explosives." Sam shook her head. "He told me to, and I—I—" she faltered briefly before trying again. "I just believe that something material has been lost. I no longer believe implicitly in my teammates, and I don't believe that they have much faith in me."

Hammond paused, mulling. The seconds dragged on into what seemed like hours. Sam shifted in her seat, shifted her focus away from the General and over his shoulder to the eagle statue that hovered there. Fleetingly, the inane image came to mind of a cartoonish shoulder angel. She lowered her head before her nervous smile could show.

"Major, are you sure that this is what you want?"

Sam pulled herself back to seriousness. "Yes, sir."

"Are you sure that you really know _why_?"

Sam raised her head to find the General studying her. She scowled, returning his scrutiny. "I don't understand what you mean, sir."

"Colonel O'Neill didn't know anything about the investigation being performed. I believe that Simmons and his men are trying to discredit the SGC in order to gain control of it themselves. The situation with Orlin was merely coincidental."

"That's what Colonel O'Neill said, sir."

"And he was right." Hammond fixed her with his gaze. "He was also right in what he told me before you got here the other day that this situation would hurt you the most. That your trust in him would be broken."

"Yes, sir."

"But I think that you're underestimating the value that your team puts on you. And could it be that your own insecurities—knowing that what you were doing wasn't quite on the up and up—could have something to do with your belief that they don't trust you anymore?" His Texas drawl didn't make his words any less harsh.

"I believed that what I was doing was right."

"Sam."

The General rarely broke protocol. Sam ducked her head again, this time to hide the rush of emotion that broke over her.

"Sam." He said again. "You and I both know that's not exactly true."

Did she? She was capable of introspection. Her mind immediately flew to an image of the Colonel and Teal'c, standing on her front step with a box of pizza and that ridiculous Rhinestone Cowboy shirt and neckerchief. Orlin had just told her that he was once again human and could not simply vanish—and she'd touched him—known the veracity of his statement. But when she'd heard the colonel knock, she'd shoved Orlin behind a door and babbled incoherently to O'Neill about last minute plans.

Why hadn't she let them in? What had kept her from fulfilling her obligations as a member of the team and proving Orlin was real? She could have answered the question in that moment—and her sanity and integrity would no longer have been as issue.

But, convoluted as it was, she'd had feelings for Orlin, albeit not the ones he'd wanted from her. And what had been her real motivation? She'd told herself that it was gathering intelligence about the alien. She was learning about the weapon on 636. But looking back—she'd been enjoying the interlude. Orlin was an attractive man—and interested in her. And as lonely as her life often was, it had been wonderful to have that attention.

Her heart sank. Sometimes, introspection really sucked.

"I know that things have happened recently that have been—difficult." The General's voice had lowered—washing over her like warm Texas honey. "I know that feelings exist that are hard to cope with. Feelings that make everything more difficult to take."

"I'm handling it."

"Are you?"

Was she? She knew the answer, however much she didn't want to admit it. But the sound that she made was neither assent nor denial.

"I have found that emotion often clouds our more basic functions." The General watched her steadily. "When my wife was alive, she used to tell me a story about an old couple who were unhappy in their marriage. The wife was constantly complaining that her husband was a slob—that she was always having to clean up after him. And what bothered her most was that, when he brushed his teeth, he would flick toothpaste all over the mirror. The wife nagged him and nagged him about how messy he was until they were both miserable. One day, about two months after he died, she was tidying up in the bathroom and she realized that there was still toothpaste all over the mirror." He paused, letting it sink in. "You see, Major Carter. She was just as guilty of it as he. But she was determined to find the fault in him, so she found it."

Sam bit her lip between her teeth.

"You may feel that they have lost faith in you, and you may feel like you can't trust them. But let's not let this whole issue be blurred by the fact that there are some very strong emotions running beneath it all."

"Sir, I—"

He raised a hand in interruption. "Don't say anything you'll have to take back later. Or answer for."

"I don't know what to say." And, in all honesty, she didn't.

"Then go figure this out. You're a smart lady, Major Carter." The General leaned back in his chair, pulling with him her request and crumpling it within one of his beefy hands. "I think you'll find that there's a way."

She stood, turning towards the door, but was halted by the General's Texas drawl. "Oh, and Major Carter."

"Yes, sir?"

"Be wise." Pointed. His meaning was absolutely clear. But he clarified anyway. "About your choices. _Be wise_."

----OOOOOOO----

Sam wandered the halls of the SGC, not realizing where she was going until she'd stepped through the entry of the lab. She stood in the doorway for several beats, watching as Daniel wrote something in his ever-present journal.

She made a noise in the back of her throat and he looked up, focusing slowly on her through his glasses and a series of rapid blinks—much like a baby bird. She found herself smiling—a slight, anemic thing.

"Sam." He closed his book closed with a solid _thunk_. "What's up?"

Rather than answer, she rounded his table and parked herself on a stool near his computer. She felt him watching her, knew he was gauging her. She didn't know what to say to him. How to begin.

"I heard a nasty rumor." He didn't look at her, picking up an artifact of some sort and storing it on a shelf.

"Oh?"

"Jack said that you asked to be reassigned."

"Yes. General Hammond denied it."

"Well," Daniel hooked his hands over his hips and smiled. "He always was a smart guy."

She nodded.

"Why?"

Sam looked up at him. "Why did I ask to be reassigned?"

"No, why did you wear that set of BDUs today?" He said, with a note of impatience in his voice. "Of _course_ why did you ask to be reassigned?"

She let a little silence fall between them before blurting, "Daniel—do you trust me?"

He frowned, then pushed his glasses up his nose. "Why—_why_—would you ask that, Sam?"

"Did you believe me about the alien—about Orlin?"

"I wasn't even on base for most of that—I was on 636 translating."

"Did you believe me?" Her voice was harsh, insistent.

"I believe _in_ you."

She smiled and rolled her eyes. Turning her body on the stool, she found a small statuette and ran her fingers over the headpiece. "That's what the Colonel said."

"And he was right." Daniel drew in a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly. "I didn't know whether or not this guy was real—but I believed _you_ believed in him."

"You thought I was crazy."

"I knew you weren't crazy—but I _didn't_ know whether or not you were _wrong_."

"Sounds the same to me."

"Sam in this job—there are always doubts as to what we see, what we hear. You remember in our second year of 'Gate travel—Shyla? You saw the effects of the sarcophagus on me. You doubted my actions in those times—but you never doubted _in_ me, did you?"

"No, Daniel, of course not. I knew that the only reason that you were ignoring us was that you were being manipulated."

"It's the same with Orlin. We didn't know what kind of stuff was occurring. Our concern was for you. And we didn't know about the surveillance. Jack didn't know. We'd have told you."

"Yes. So I've heard."

A long silence stretched between them, accompanied by the low hum of Daniel's computer. Sam knew what he was saying—there existed a difference between believing in the basic character of a person and approving their every action. She hadn't sought their approval—only an excuse from the Colonel to act in a way that wasn't her norm.

And then she'd abandoned them by not letting them in when Orlin couldn't make himself disappear.

The example from General Hammond flashed through her mind. Toothpaste on a mirror. She'd assumed that they were at fault—that she'd been wronged somehow. But she hadn't trusted them enough to know that they would have acted in the right way if she'd introduced them to her visitor.

Daniel seemed to sense her thoughts.

"Sam, surely you know?" Daniel stepped closer to her. "Surely you know that no matter what—we're more like a family than a team. A bickering, dysfunctional, slightly nutsy family, but a family nonetheless. There's not _anything_ that will change the fact that we—all of us—believe in you."

Sam's breath caught in the back of her throat. She stood. "Yeah. I know."

"Sam—I'm here, if you need me. We all are."

And she nodded. Because she _knew_ that was true.

What she didn't know how to do was to _believe_ it again.


	5. Quid Pro Quo

_Quid Pro Quo_

"What does this smell remind you of?" Janet motioned with her hands, wafting the air towards Sam.

Sam paused, inhaled through her nose, and then considered briefly before answering. "Junior Year Science Fair. I entered a project based on common household items and their explosive qualities."

Janet eyes widened. She stared at Sam in consternation before speaking. "Let me get this straight—a high school gymnasium, filled with people—some of whom, I might add, are sweaty and pretty ripe—reminds you of your Junior Year Science Fair—for which, you entered a _bomb_?"

Sam grinned. "Pretty much. But it wasn't really a bomb, per se. I merely measured the explosive capabilities of common products people can find around their homes, and then posited theories about which ones could do the most damage were they to be confined in small spaces together and given an appropriate detonator."

"Did you have examples at the fair?"

"Of course." Sam sipped at her own soda. "You gotta have examples. That's the fun of it."

Janet's eyes widened further. "You're kidding me, right?"

Major Carter pursed her lips and shook her head. "Nope. But I didn't include detonators or catalysts—that part was mostly theoretical."

"I have to ask—how did you do?"

"I got disqualified." She watched as a few cheerleaders bounded perkily across the court. "The judges thought it was a bomb, too. Stinking Peaceniks."

Janet took a long drink out of her cup. They'd stopped on their way into the gym for sodas and popcorn—like they always did at Cassie's basketball games. Today, however, she'd been sure to drag Sam there early. The Colonel had asked her to—and as big a pain as O'Neill was in her infirmary, Janet knew that this particular conversation needed to be had on neutral ground.

"So, what does the smell remind _you_ of?" Sam watched Janet down a handful of popcorn. For a little thing, she sure ate well.

"Same as you—Junior year." She grinned and swallowed, taking another sip from her cup. "But not as geeky—or _disturbing_. Really? A _bomb_?"

"Careful—isn't there this zero tolerance thing here? You're going to get us kicked out, and then Cassie will be pissed."

"Okay." Janet shook her head and took a deep breath. "Basketball semifinals, winning point at the buzzer. I celebrate with Travis Medders under the bleachers."

"Why, you little trollop."

"He was cute. _Really_ cute."

"What position did he play?"

"Point guard."

"So he was tall?"

"Six four or five, I don't remember."

Sam snorted, then gave up and laughed out loud. "What, did you bring an apple box on your dates?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you even five feet tall?"

"Yes, I am, Sam Carter." Janet glared at the blond on her left. "We _all_ can't be Amazon Priestesses."

Sam blithely ignored her and barreled on. "And you dated a point guard. Made out with him under the bleachers after a basket ball game?"

"After several basketball games, as a matter of fact."

"Janet. Seriously. _How_? Did you climb on a chair? Bring a ladder?"

"Shut up, Sam." Janet glared at her sideways, her dark eyes narrowed. "It's just that every time I get in a gym, it makes me think of that particular game."

"Gyms _do_ all smell alike." Sam conceded the point with a nonchalant shrug.

"Dirty socks and popcorn." Janet answered with a smile.

"And menthol."

"And some kind of cleaner."

"Solvent. They use it to get the gum off from under the seats." Sam grinned. "You know, you take the gum out before the hot make-out session—and stick it—" She made a sound like a 'thptz' and demonstrated with her thumb, "under the bleachers."

Janet chose to ignore that, focusing instead on a figure standing just to one side of the main doorway. He'd arrived. Nervously, she nudged her companion. "Hey, Sam."

"Yeah, Janet?"

"Look who came to Cassie's game today." She pointed as inconspicuously as possible.

"Who?" Sam scanned the crowd, then the floor, following Janet's finger. She saw the Colonel standing, unmoving, watching them. Suddenly, her chest felt too tight. The pleasure she'd found in the light banter of just a few seconds before had fled. She glanced sideways at Janet. "Did you know he was going to be here?"

"He'd mentioned he might show up." Janet shrugged. "In passing."

"Really?" Sam's skepticism drenched the word.

Janet crinkled her nose . "Okay, he asked me if you were coming." She leaned into her friend. "Sam, you really need to talk to him."

"And what if I don't want to?"

"Go." Janet reached over and placed a hand on Sam's arm. "You've got to get this worked out."

"There's nothing to work out, Janet. You're military—you know what I mean."

"Yeah. But first I'm a girl and your friend." Janet reached over and grabbed Sam's soda and popcorn. "That trumps stuffy old Generals any day."

Sam rolled her eyes and looked back down to where O'Neill stood, hands in his pockets, staring back up at her. His posture showed a mix of controlled patience and tolerant annoyance.

Sam sighed, then stood. "I'll be back."

"Sam." Janet reached out and grabbed the hem of her sweater. "Sam—remember that both of you are kind of raw here—you know? This hasn't _just_ affected you."

Sam looked down at Janet thoughtfully. She hadn't really had a good girlfriend in her life before she'd met the SGC doctor. It was different than the kind of friendship she shared with Daniel. Different from any relationship she'd had outside work for a very long time. Janet truly wanted her to be happy. She smiled down at the little dark-haired power-monger. "I know. I'll be back."

And then she wended her way down the bleachers towards O'Neill.

He didn't smile as she approached, just tilted his head slightly and watched until she stopped in front of him.

"I take it you're not here for the game." Sam gestured with a thumb over her shoulder.

"No." He scanned the crowd again, as if performing recon. "I thought this would be a neutral zone."

"How so?"

"Somehow, I don't think that the NID will think to wire Cassie's basketball game for sound."

Sam smiled ruefully. "So you want to do this here, or—"

"There's an empty classroom out there." He motioned with a jerk of his head towards the doorway behind him, and its locker-lined hallway.

"Basic recon." Her voice betrayed an only slightly snarky attitude.

"Something like that." His betrayed a slight smile.

"Lead the way, sir."

He turned, after studying the crowd one last time. Sam followed behind, trying not to feel like she was heading out to visit the Principal.

The classroom was deserted, semi-dark, and quiet. O'Neill opened the door and held it for Sam to pass through, then entered, closed the door behind him, and pointedly turned the lock. There was a tiny window in the door, and a shade that he pulled down, enclosing them within the room in complete privacy.

The light from the afternoon sun filtered in through high windows on the opposite wall. Desks were spaced evenly through the room—in a traditional setting. Columns of them marched from the front of the room towards the back. A teacher's desk occupied one corner, sitting at an angle, and chalkboards graced the center of each wall, flanked on either side by cork bulletin boards. By the papers and pictures thumb-tacked to the boards, the room was used by an English teacher. The chalkboard in the front of the room announced the topic of the next test—"Symbolism in Shakespeare's Dark Lady Sonnets."

Sam stopped near the teacher's desk and waited uncertainly, watching as the Colonel made his way over to where she stood.

"Man." He looked around, taking in the room, its décor. "This takes me back."

"I know. Who was the Dark Lady, anyway? I never got that."

"Emilia Bassano something or other—she was a courtesan of Queen Elizabeth the First, or say they say."

"How do you know that?"

"Only one of my many skills." But the words were said without humor. "I didn't get much out of high school, but some things stuck."

"I know. Janet and I were just revisiting some high school memories, too."

"Oh?"

"Just stuff." Sam shrugged. "Being back in a place like this makes you think of random parts of your past. Makes you think how fast life goes—how much there is to regret sometimes."

O'Neill didn't answer that. He leaned back against a student's desk, balancing himself with his hands. They took in each other's presence for a while, measuring mood, feeling out the atmosphere.

Finally, Sam couldn't take the silence. "Sir—I—"

"Carter," O'Neill interrupted her with a wave of his hand. "Let me go first. Please."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't believe you. I'm sorry that I doubted you."

She lowered her eyes and breathed deep. She knew he was sincere.

"I know that you've been hurt by what's happened—and as much as I'd like to be able to take it back, or do it all over again, I can't."

Sam nodded.

"I think that we've both got to come to terms with the fact that this wouldn't have been as bad had it not been for the fact that there's other—_stuff_—going on here."

"Yes, sir."

"I think that the—attraction—makes it more difficult to see things in the perspective that they need to be seen."

Sam studied the toes of the boots she wore. "I agree."

"But it's not going to solve things for you to be reassigned."

"I thought it would be easier if we didn't have to see each other every day—live in each other's pockets like we do both here and off-world."

She could feel O'Neill's eyes on her, and she looked up just enough to see that he was regarding her intently. "Do you still think so?"

"Sir, it's uncomfortable, sometimes."

"Yes. It is."

They both knew that she was talking about more than just the constant awareness that they had of each other. They'd handled that part as well as they could. Stolen touches and moments here and there went a long way towards assuaging the worst of it, and they'd fallen into a steady rhythm of advance and retreat. But Sam was talking about the more difficult times—times when they would be reminded of all that they couldn't have, and it would hyper-sensitize them to what they were missing.

Her mind flashed to one moment from several months ago. They'd been on a planet with a similar technology to their own, in a decent-sized city—a first contact locale. Their host had taken them into the City Center, to visit some of the historical sites. They'd walked two and two along the sidewalk, Daniel and Teal'c ahead, chatting with their guide, she and the Colonel trailing behind. There was a gazebo to their left, and as they'd passed, Sam had happened to glance over to see a couple inside, sitting close, heads bent close. The man had smiled and gently combed back the woman's hair, and she'd leaned into his caress. It had been a scene of such sweet intimacy that Sam had stopped, unable to take her eyes off them. Inside her, something had happened. She'd felt wanting. She'd felt empty. And when she could finally move again, she'd noticed that O'Neill had stopped next to her, seen the same scene. But instead of looking at them, he was examining her with an odd, uncomfortable intensity. It had taken a supreme effort to move ahead, when she'd wanted nothing more than to find a gazebo of her own.

Now, she watched him watch her, studying his dark, deep eyes. He was normally difficult to read—today it was impossible.

"I don't know what would be harder." She thought out loud, without being truly conscious of it. "Being with you every day, or _not_ being with you every day."

O'Neill tilted his head and drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk he leaned against. "The _not_. Not seeing you all the time would be harder. These past few weeks have been—tough. I've missed you."

"Sir—I—"

He shook his head, stopping her words. "Carter—I think that you know what's going on here—don't you?"

"I'm not sure." She said. "Do I want to know?"

"Well, if we're going to settle this—total trust thing, we've got to know where it stands."

"Okay."

"But regardless of where it stands, it's got to just _stand_ there—not moving—until it's time. Right?"

"Yes." She inclined her head. "I agree."

He stood suddenly, then scratched his ear. With an exasperated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair. "So, you know where we stand?"

She tried to fight, but couldn't, the smile that begged to emerge. She sometimes saw him agitated, or annoyed. But this—this uncharacteristic bundle of nerves was different. She had gotten most of the smile controlled by the time she answered. "Apparently, there's some sort of attraction. Where we stand."

"Something like that."

She decided to turn the tables for a minute. "Do you trust me sir? Attraction aside."

"Absolutely." He paused, cocked an eyebrow. "Do you forgive me? Attraction aside."

"Absolutely." She smiled. "And I'm sorry that I screwed up. I should have told you that he'd taken human form again. I was wrong."

"And I got jealous." He blurted out the words, surprising even himself. "I _did_. And I shouldn't have—but I did. And seeing you so happy with this—alien dude—that really ticked me off."

"Sir, I—I wasn't _with_ him."

"I know that now." His lips thinned, and he reached out and grabbed a pen that a student had left on a desk. He took the lid off, then put it back on. "I know that. It surprised me—how upset I was."

"I was shocked when I thought you'd been spying on me."

"I know. I didn't know what else to do."

"I understand that." She bit her top lip nervously before going on. "But I'd still expected more out of our relationship—like I deserved something more from you."

"Carter," he continued playing with the pen as he spoke. "I'm a simple guy. I don't have much—a job, my house, a great collection of videos. A cool truck."

"It is cool." You _had_ to agree with that one.

He waved her quiet. "I don't have much. The whole of what I am, is basically a character—a certain integrity that I hope I've demonstrated in my life." He stopped, put the pen down, and stepped toward her. "There isn't much that could damage me. Losing my job wouldn't do it. I believe in what we're doing. I would hate to jeopardize it, but it wouldn't take me down. Losing you—that would do it. Losing what trust you had in me—that's another. Simmons and his friends were trying to get something on us—trying to discredit us—and he used us against each other. And you were hurt in the fallout."

She made a move to protest, but he held up his hand again. "You were hurt. And you can argue about how you should have told me what and when—but it doesn't matter. I should have done more—"

"You did enough, sir."

"Sam."

She watched as he struggled for his words.

"Sam." He started again, his eyes dark, earnest. "What I'm saying is, I know that through this you've started to doubt this." He motioned between them with one large, elegant hand. "But I just want you to know that, no matter what. _No matter what_—you never have to doubt that _this_ is real. And when I said I didn't have much, I mean that I don't have anything if I don't have you."

She swallowed a sob, forcing it down her throat. She blinked back the heat that came before tears—but her eyes were dry. After a lifetime, she could speak. "I know. Me too. _You_ too—you know what I mean. Ditto."

He observed her struggle as long as he could, then held out one arm. "Come here."

And she crossed the void and walked into him, his arms instantly surrounding her. She wasn't going to cry—her relief was too profound for tears. His body was warm, and she soaked it in—inhaling him, devouring all she could of his feel, his touch. He lowered his head until his cheek touched hers, and she felt his breath stir her hair. Her fingers smoothed out over his back, loving the substance of the man who held her. Loving the man who held her.

"This is real." He repeated. His hands, his arms, pulled her closer. "Don't doubt that."

"I won't." Sam's words were little more than a mumble against his chest. She turned her head into him, rested her forehead on his shoulder. "I don't."

A knock sounded on the door, and a voice yelled something about maintenance. Jack momentarily tightened his hold on her. "We've gotta go. I'm sure that's the janitorial staff."

"Yeah. Probably." Sam rubbed one hand over his back again, shoulder blade to waist. Regretfully, she pulled away, resting her hands on his hips before moving to step back. She breathed deeply, motioning to the door. "I'd better go find Janet."

"Finish watching the game?"

"Cassie's playing."

"Cool."

Sam turned and started towards the door. Reaching it, she turned the lock and started for the handle, her mind so full of images and thoughts that she didn't see Jack's big hand force the door back shut.

"Sam."

She turned, her question in her eyes.

"Didn't Hammond tell you to be wise?" He smiled ruefully before leaning forward and pressing her back against the door, then pressing his lips to hers. He raised his head briefly, her head framed on either side by his hands on the door. "It would be _really_ unwise to waste an opportunity."

Sam smiled and tilted her head up to him. "That, it would," she said before his head descended again.

----OOOOOOO----

The second quarter had started when they both finally made their way back to where Janet was sitting. She stared up at them as Sam scooted over next to Janet and the Colonel lowered himself next to Sam.

"Nice of you to join me."

"How's Cassie doing?" Sam leaned over and retrieved her drink from the floor. Absently, she took a sip and then handed it to O'Neill, who followed suit.

Janet grinned. "She's doing well. She'd already made six points."

O'Neill nodded appreciatively. "Well, good for her."

"The team's having a great run this year." The doctor watched as Sam reached for her popcorn, bracing one hand on the Colonel's knee as she bent over.

"Oh?" Jack's hand steadied the Major, offering additional balance at her waist.

"They might make the playoffs."

Jack reached over and took a handful of kernels from Sam's container, then leaned back in the seat, stretching his left arm casually across the backrest. He had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. A similar look graced Sam's.

"So, Sam."

"Yeah, Janet?"

"Will you be coming to Cassie's playoff games?"

Sam turned to her and scrunched her nose up. "Of course. Why would you ask that?"

Janet grinned and leaned over. "Hey, Colonel."

"Yeah, Doc?"

"You ever play point guard?"


End file.
